The Eighth King (The White Umbrella Testament Book 1) Page 27

  Outside the throne room, a robed selector abased himself to Tenshing, then began to follow him in step. The guards bristled at that as well, though the same thing had happened dozens of times before. It was the historian; dark circles rimmed his eyes. “Forgive me, my King.”

  “You will not be seeking my forgiveness much longer, freeman.”

  “Be that as it may, sire.” And Tenshing heard the hint of exasperation where none could possibly have resided before. Thus it begins, he thought. Thus crumbles my power. Thus, too, a weight lifted from his shoulders. But was it the weight of a convict’s yoke, or of a good wool coat in winter?

  “What is it, freeman?”

  “A petitioner remains.”

  Tenshing stopped abruptly and turned to the historian as if to lash out at the outlandishness. “It is well past the middle of the night,” he said, more calmly than he felt, “and my authority to address her petition is in question.”

  “She swears that, barring your death, no outcome of the parlay could possibly have affected your suitability to address the petition.”

  “That is an interesting distinction,” said Tenshing.

  The historian shrugged. “It is hers.”

  “Well, it has consequences for you. One might be suitable, but not authorized.”

  “The petitioner addressed her request to the King of Uä, sire.”

  Tenshing turned the full force of the Eye of Ten Thousand Apprehensions on the historian. Although it would be libelous to use the word “intimidate” except, as we have just done, in a strongly contrastive application, it is fair to say that Tenshing expected and hoped that the use of the Rigor might elicit a certain failure of courage from the historian. In this he was disappointed, though the Eye picked up and connected many other details he had not adequately appreciated—the bunching of the historian’s shoulder muscles when he shrugged, the irregularity in the folds of his scholar’s robe that whispered betrayal of a long dagger at his right hip. “Are you left-handed, historian?”

  “No, sire. I merely find a same-side draw with icepick grip enables me to respond more efficaciously to surprise attacks.”

  “The university must be a rougher place than I remember.”

  “These academics are too wooed by violent men’s metaphor, I think.”

  “I fear I do not understand.”

  The historian shrugged again. “The language of rhetoric is currently in fashion among the gallant fraternity.” He indicated the dagger beneath his robe. “I, for example, am not a disputatious soul, but I am prepared to meet all arguments with a terse but pointed syllogism.”

  “Ah. I suppose a scholar would find such talk romantic.”

  “Some do, sire.”

  Tenshing smiled. “And some are more discriminating.”

  The historian shrugged a third time. “No faculty of discrimination is required. One need merely watch a rhetorician attempt the steel polemic to understand the principles at work.”

  “Surprising words from a scholar’s mouth.”

  The King’s interlocutor smiled thinly. “I am no rhetorician. In my field, we make a point of studying past mistakes.”

  “Yet you beg a King’s attention after a midnight meeting.”

  “You do me the honor to assume I know of your famous great-grandfather’s uncompromising attitude toward interruptions of his sleep. Well, I know it is ill-advised to disturb a King. But one of my colleagues has convinced me of a thing.”

  At this Tenshing once more applied the Eye of Ten Thousand Apprehensions, though largely to confirm a perception he had had before, but whose significance he thought he had perhaps only just realized. “Legalists, of course, are professionally bound to be convincing.”

  “True, sire, but it was not the legalist.”

  “No, I thought not.”

  “Then the urgency of the petition—”

  “Is impressed on me. Though you might have been more forthcoming about it.”

  “As I said before, sire—the petitioner addressed her request to the King of Uä.”

  Here Tenshing could have suppressed a frown, but did not, for it was not right for a freeman to insinuate calumnies on the character of a King—no matter that the King himself was unsure of their nature. “I think I must demand an expansion of your syllogism, freeman.”

  “I mean only that, as you will soon learn, the petitioner is of an august nature. Consummately so, in fact.”

  “Consummately?” the King said with some interest. “You mean to say that no more august petitioner could be imagined?”

  “That is my meaning precisely. As well, I inferred that the meeting which my sovereign has just vacated might likely have proven disorienting with respect to his own station in the world—although that station, as we have agreed at different points, remains for the nonce what it was.”

  “This is all accurate.”

  “In light of which two facts—”

  “—the petitioner’s augustness and my own disorientation—”

  “—I inferred that a congenial interaction with a subordinate might set my sovereign at his ease.”

  Tenshing took a moment to assess his mental state. “The Lotus, freeman, it was a well-made inference.”

  The historian sketched a quick but precise abasement. “Nothing could gratify me more.”

  It is pleasing when, in narrative, a conversation begun in transit from one place to another elapses in exactly the time of the transition itself, obviating the need for, in the one case, description of a necessarily uneventful silence, or, in the other, interruption of the discourse by mention of the arrival, which is likely to be forgotten in the flow of thesis and antithesis and require new rehearsal when the conversation has run its course and action at that new place can finally be rendered. It is in avoidance of the latter that we have omitted mention of the King and historian’s arrival at the chamber of petition, which had occurred at approximately the point when Tenshing had first comprehended the great stature of his third petitioner. Thus we have conveyed the truth of the scene’s timing, if not exactly in temporal order, and can now rest easy in saying that, immediately on his expression of gratification, the historian opened the chamber to reveal a legalist (terrified), a theologian (enthralled), and a being who gave every appearance of being an even-featured human woman in the middle of her third decade, clad in a robe as simple and elegant as Tenshing’s own and shaded, though of course she was indoors, by a perfectly round white parasol.

  If it seems awkward to write of oneself in the third person, we trust it will be forgiven. The minds of gods are not for mortals to know. Nothing about our penance alters that.

  With perfect grace and timing, Tenshing made an abasement he had never made, nor ever expected to: knees, palms, and elbows to the floor, forehead separated from it only by the intricate, splay-fingered pattern of his hands. The deity nodded her acknowledgement at a depth befitting a King and bade him rise. He was taller than the earthly form that she had chosen, but looking on her face felt like looking from the foothills of the Starladder at its summit. “The honor of the White Umbrella Deity’s presence is unmatched in this lifetime,” he said. “I invite the Deity to sit, if it would ease her body.”

  The deity ignored the courtesy. “King Tenshing Astama,” she said, “I fear I have abused your mechanism of petition.”

  “The Deity has no duty to respect mortal law when it occludes her objectives. And no god, man, beast, or demon is forbidden from petitioning the King.”

  “I did not imagine so. But it is not petition I have in mind, I fear. I am here to fulfill a promise to a friend.”

  No particle of Tenshing’s confusion marred his serenity. “I will do all in my power to advance the Deity’s endeavor.”

  “I need only your ear,” said the White Umbrella Deity, “and an unobstructed path from it to your mind, that my words may, by way of one, enter the other.”

  “Both ears, and their attendant paths, are yours.”

  �
��Very well.” The White Umbrella Deity did not precisely draw breath, for it had been some time since breath was necessary to her and she had lost the habit; but she did, it must be admitted, nearly start to speak before realizing that her words required further composition. “There is a thing your father meant you to know in this eventuality.”

  “My father.” Tenshing could nearly feel the keen attention of all three selectors now, for their various reasons, but the scrutiny of the historian was perhaps most penetrating of all, scornful as that man might be to hear it phrased so. “By ‘this eventuality’ you refer to the uncertainty currently surrounding the rightful claim to the Orchid Throne?”

  “You have phrased the referent precisely.”

  “The Deity’s suggestion implies—or at least I, perhaps wrongly, derive the implication—that my father expected this so-called eventuality.”

  “Your inference is correct.”

  “I surmise that, had the Deity intended to enlarge on this unexpected information, she would have done so.”

  The White Umbrella Deity made an affirmative motion of her parasol.

  “And am I to know what it is my father meant me to know?”

  “He meant you to know that he made an expedition to Therku incognito, two years after your birth,” said the White Umbrella Deity. “He knew he might not live to see the challenge to your claim. He made diverse arrangements for the information to come to you. It was entrusted to no fewer than three good men of the Green Morning and, in case of their deaths, their sons. A clue was hidden in the sections of the law you must certainly have read in preparation for the challenge; another was hidden in the siege-cauldrons, which any competent general would surely inspect before their deployment. This expedient was the last resort.”

  “Then—”

  “Lin Daikaz, Lin Mephem, and Elephant With Two Trunks Lin all died in the dueling circle or on the battlefield; they had five sons between them who died in combat or by accident. The Dukes’ and Lamas’ Councils agreed on a minor rewording of the succession laws not long ago. The siege-cauldrons were just last year recoated with an alloy that better withstands heat.”

  “If a joke were appropriate, I would joke that I felt some small fear for the Deity’s own survival.”

  The White Umbrella Deity looked at Tenshing, and the chill in that look was not anger or reproach. Tenshing saw the legalist yawn, the theologian blanch, the historian assume a certain coiled tensility without obviously moving; but again his King’s training served him well. “It would be a feeble joke, though,” he said. “I surmise that I am at my discretion in my response to this revelation?”

  “I may not recommend a response.” The Deity spun her parasol, looking up at the blur of the spokes. “You have only your discretion to guide you, I fear.”

  “Very well. May the King of Uä make an inquiry on an unrelated matter?”

  “Of course.”

  “What would the Deity’s unsurpassed faculties of mind make of a priest reading the fiction of the masses?”

  The Deity smiled. “Come, Your Grace, surely you will not take the lamate to task for their leisure-time diversions.”

  “Nothing of the kind. Yet I think it out of character for the King’s Lama.”

  Here the Deity’s face grew somber. “Do you know him so well?”

  “Well enough.”

  “Some men read for education,” said the Deity. “A fine occupation. Some read for diversion, and that cannot be faulted. Some read that other men may know that they have read. An odious practice, to be sure, but necessity is sometimes odious.” The Deity’s expression was, for its own part, unreadable.

  “My thanks. Is there any other service the King of Uä may render the White Umbrella Deity?”

  “None.” The Deity readied herself to dissolve her physical manifestation, but before she did so, she looked into the face of the man who soon might no longer be the eighth King of Uä, and in it seemed, perhaps, to discover something she had overlooked or forgotten. For the first time, her face softened with an almost human sympathy. “I fear you will not see Lin Tong for some time,” she said, and disappeared.

  There is little of substance to say about the immediate aftermath of our encounter with Tenshing. Even in these sophisticated times, the reader will have anticipated that we were correct about Lin Tong, a fact that caused Tenshing no shortage of anguish and confusion in the weeks that followed.

  The other matter of substance will perhaps have been anticipated by observant readers. The great demands of his coronation and training left the newly crowned King Tenshing Astama without time to entertain petitions, and accordingly the selectors’ positions were terminated until the system could be reinstated. Thus, as the man who now called himself Netten began his historical researches into the movements of his august father, King Tenshing Saptama, he could not avoid repeatedly encountering a lean man with a familiar face and a long, wicked dagger now residing in plain view on his right hip, in just the position for an icepick-grip draw. Encounter led to conversation and ultimately to camaraderie, and when the historian came to the dethroned King with a proposal to join him in a small but comfortable rowhouse in East Rassha, Netten had learned enough not to hesitate in saying yes.

  The road from earth to heaven

  hey rode until the red-armored Gardener cavaliers and the new-unfrozen river fell well behind, and when they reached the highroad and Netten turned back toward Rassha, no one questioned the decision. Lin Gyat called the halt before, as far as Datang could tell, their horse began to flag; but he insisted that the animal could run no more, and Netten did not gainsay him. They trotted off the road until they came upon a hummock that would conceal them tolerably well, and Netten, no longer shy of displaying his talent at the Rigors, swiftly felled a slim dying birch with the Eight Weapon Hand and ignited it with the Four Conflagration Touch. The effort left him visibly drained. “The Rigors were made to defeat the human mind and body,” he explained to Datang, though she had not asked. “Trees and bridges do not feel pain, and they do not bleed when cut. Only great force can destroy them.” His expression became thoughtful for a moment, and far away. “I never thought on the matter, Left Hand—how the deities’ gifts relied on blood and pain for their great efficacy. It is a sobering thought.”

  “But the King tore apart the tank column at Goat Ridge,” said Datang.

  “The King’s men have not spoken of his condition after that engagement,” said Netten. “More to the point, though, the King is a more powerful practitioner of the Eight Weapon Hand than I, and at least my equal in the Four Conflagration Touch.”

  “Ah,” said Lin Gyat, “this matter of the Rigors puts me in mind of a question. But I have forgotten the question.”

  “Our friend Netten is the Gracious Regent, Envied of Snakes,” said Lin Yongten, “master of seven Rigors Martial, keeper of the Orchid Throne, once wrongly called King Tenshing Astama.”

  Lin Gyat frowned. “I am not certain that was my question. But it is a fascinating revelation.”

  Datang looked closely at Lin Yongten. “But, to you, it is not a revelation.”

  “The Regent and I enjoyed a glancing association before the throne was returned to the King.” Netten glared at Lin Yongten; the Eager Edge merely raised an eyebrow. “Have I uttered an inaccuracy?”

  “Nothing of the kind,” said Netten, though his tone was not entirely satisfied. “And what, if I may ask, caused you to be chased by an army of red Gardener cavaliers?”

  Lin Yongten shrugged. “We made their acquaintance on unfortunate terms.”

  “Envied of Snakes,” said Netten, “do me a kindness, if you would: Take those four logs I have not yet placed on the fire, and arrange them in a circle, that we might sit without becoming any more snow-sodden.” Lin Gyat readily complied, and when he had placed the first one, Netten pointed at it and looked at Lin Yongten. “Sit,” he said, “and speak.”

  “We left you at the door to the House of Ogyal,” said Lin Yongte
n, “and determined that the most relevant information concerning the Northern Border was to be found at an eatery where the few people not minding houses and children seemed to be convened. We entered and asked to sample both meat and drink, the better to blend in with the local population. The food, as it eventuated, was of a low caliber, wherefore we were very nearly obligated to concentrate on the drink.”

  “The drink’s caliber was no higher,” put in Lin Gyat, “but it was more efficacious at its duty than the meat.”

  “As our comrade says. Once served, we cast our eyes about the common room as subtly as we could manage, whereupon we noticed a pair of brothers of the Green Morning. Suchlike are thin on the ground in Therku, where the great battles are axe against tree and fire against snow, and accordingly we took our meat and drink to their table and asked whether they had news from the Northern Border.

  “The question seemed to wrong-foot them more than a little, but at last, one saw fit to inform us that they were traveling in that direction themselves, in search of news. Even our comrade here—” he gestured to Lin Gyat—“could not but notice that the man was remarkably poorly spoken, even when articulating such a simple sentiment, and that his Gardener accent—which, granted, is not so uncommon in Tanggang, from which he professed to hail—was unusually thick. We asked them their styles, and the same man replied: He was the Sickly Dragon, and his partner—who, though mute, cut an uncommonly elegant figure in green—was called the Eloquent Dragon. Sickly made much of their modesty of skill, and of their obscurity even among the gallant fraternity of Tanggang, which he termed the ‘knightly brotherhood.’ Well, in hindsight, the matter seems rather clear, but please put yourself in the mind of two men, saddle-sore and hungry for meat and society, and entirely ignorant of the mass of bloody-armored Gardener cavaliers hunkered not half a mile from the village’s edge—”